


I'll Be Fine

by whitchry9



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Feels, Friendship, Gen, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Medical, Surgery, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 03:16:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 6,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John says he'll be fine, and Sherlock believes him. Until he can't any more. And it's awfully hard to forgive John for lying about something big like that, even if he didn't mean to. </p><p>Not using warnings because spoilers, but there are some. FEELS ABOUND.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

As it so often began, he got a phone call.

 

“ _Sherlock Holmes,” he answered out of habit, already knowing it was Lestrade._

“ _Sherlock, there's been an accident.”_

_Even from the slightest amount of tension in Lestrade's voice, Sherlock could tell this was serious._

“ _What?” he demanded._

“ _Don't panic, because he's fine, but John has been taken to hospital.”_

_Sherlock was halfway down the stairs, shrugging his coat on by the time he finished that sentence._

“ _What happened?” he ordered, having already climbed in a cab and given directions._

“ _Some sort of explosion. We're still not entirely sure what happened, but John was conscious when the ambulance got there.”_

“ _Where?”_

“ _Near Hoxton.”_

_Sherlock frowned. “What was he doing there?”_

“ _How should I know? I don't live with him.” Lestrade sighed. “Sorry. I'll meet you at the hospital shortly, alright? Keep me updated.”_

_Sherlock flipped his phone shut without replying._


	2. Chapter 2

It wasn't supposed to end like this. Of course, life never went as planned, not even when they choreographed chases, the criminals always going the one way they never planned for.

But this wasn't criminals and chases, not anymore.

 

* * *

 

 

_John had been awake when Sherlock got there, skidding down the hall like a madman. Mycroft's influence had already reached the A &E where John was being treated, and he was in a somewhat private room._

“ _What happened?” he asked breathlessly. He didn't look too awful, just pale with numerous cuts, the beginnings of bruises, and a large number of abrasions._

“ _Oh, the usual,” he said breezily._

_Sherlock frowned. “I heard it was an explosion. There is no usual.”_

_John sighed. “Nothing broken, concussion, lots of bruises, lots of cuts, not all of them needing stitches, and...” he trailed off._

“ _And?” Sherlock prompted._

_John shifted uncomfortably. “Likely internal bleeding,” he explained, motioning to the bag of blood on the IV stand. “They're taking me to surgery. They just waited until you got here, otherwise I know you would have burst into the theatre.”_

_Sherlock smiled as John did, but it was forced. They both were._


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock could feel himself slipping down further in the chair and couldn't be bothered to stop himself. What did it matter if he ended up on the floor? What did it matter if he stayed there for all of eternity until he dried up and turned to dust?

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Sherlock, it's just surgery,” he'd said, grinning and patting his hand to reassure him. “I'll be fine.”_

_Sherlock knew that was wrong. He was supposed to be reassuring John, not the other way around._

“ _Of course it is. I know that. And you're going to be fine. Better than fine in fact, because you won't be bleeding internally after.”_

_John smiled at him. “Exactly. You behave, alright? No annoying the doctors or anything. In fact, go home, but don't drive Mrs Hudson crazy. Come back in few hours.”_

_Sherlock frowned. “Alright.”_ Only because you said so.

_So he went home. Did an experiment that didn't explode. Cleaned up. Went back to the hospital. Just like John requested. He did everything like John requested._

_But John hadn't listened to Sherlock._

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock was the dangerous one. He was supposed to be the one getting grazed by bullets, tumbling off of balconies, and being tossed like a rag-doll in explosions. Not John. John was the doctor, he was supposed to be the one to fix things after they went wrong. Sherlock was awful at fixing things. He could see where they went wrong, explain how, but could never put them back together to be the way they were supposed to be.

“Dammit John, you had one job,” he told his knee.

He was still slipping.


	4. Chapter 4

_They'd finished the surgery, it had gone fine, the bleeding had been stopped with less blood loss than anticipated. They hadn't extubated him yet, but the surgeon reassured Sherlock there was no need to rush. John had been through a traumatic experience, and his body needed to rest._

_Sherlock sat by his bed, half conscious, slipping in and out of dreams and reality, neither of which contained a conscious John Watson, each just different versions of the other, one far more worse, and Sherlock couldn't tell what was real._

 

* * *

 

 

He could hear quiet sobbing, the crying of someone who didn't want to be heard, and yet couldn't keep the tears from spilling out, their breath coming in quick hot blasts.

He curled tighter into his ball, hoping to block it all out. Didn't people know he was busy?

Sherlock had stopped slipping, entirely on the floor now. He had missed the moment when he went from the chair to the ground, the split second when he was on neither, but both.


	5. Chapter 5

_John was still unconscious by morning. Sherlock knew that wasn't normal, and kept pestering the nurses and doctors. Not annoying, just pestering. Completely different._

_They took John away around lunch for a CT scan, and returned him unchanged. They said the results would be back by supper, and Sherlock was irked he even had to wait that long._

_The short wait times were a constant reminded of Mycroft's omnipotence. However irritating that may be._

 

_Sherlock left to use the loo and stretch his legs, and when he came back, a group of doctors and nurses were standing around John's bed, discussing his case._

“ _... and as you can see by the negative doll's eyes...” he trailed off as a student elbowed him._

“ _What does that mean?” Sherlock demanded._

“ _Ah, you must be Mr Holmes. We've just come to look over Doctor Watson's case, and we'll be able to give you an update shortly, if you could just step out.”_

“ _No, I will not_ just step out, _” he snapped. “I demand to know what is going on!”_

“ _Nigel, if you could perhaps escort Mr Holmes to the family room,” the doctor said quietly, speaking to the young man who had elbowed him earlier._

_Nigel nodded, but Sherlock stood firm. The man was small, and Sherlock knew he could hurt him if he had to._

“ _No,” he said loudly. Poor Nigel jumped. “I'm sure you're all well aware of me as well as my family's influence. If you desire keeping your jobs, we will talk now.”_

_The doctor scanned Sherlock with a measured glance, then wearily nodded._

“ _If you can just stay off to the side, we're just finishing up.”_

_Sherlock watched anxiously as they examined a printout coming from a series of wires attached to John's head. Like Mycroft, the doctor had mastered the fine art of his poker face. The medical students, not so much, but they mostly displayed confusion rather then a negative or positive emotion._

_The doctor nodded to the med students. “We'll finish this discussion later,” he said, dismissing them. They trailed out, muttering amongst themselves._

“ _Please, sit down Mr Holmes.” The man gestured to a chair._

_Sherlock stared at him, but sunk into the plastic chair he'd spent most of the night and morning in. Sitting down for news was never good._

“ _Sherlock,” he muttered, remembering what John had taught him. “Call me Sherlock. And call him John,” he added, looking longingly at the bed, wishing John could be the one to handle people, as he did so often in lieu of Sherlock. Things tended to go smoother that way._

“ _Alright Sherlock. We've done a number of tests on John, including a CT scan and an EEG, not to mention the various bedside tests we were doing when you came in.”_

“ _The doll's eyes,” Sherlock noted._

“ _Yes, exactly. The tests show that John suffered from a brain bleed, likely as a complication from the explosion he was involved in.”_

“ _A brain bleed,” Sherlock echoed._

“ _Yes, a cerebral hemorrhage. That's what the CT scan showed.”_

“ _And the other tests?” Sherlock asked, looking the man in the eye ever so briefly before he looked away. Another not good sign._

“ _The EEG measures brain activity, and the doll's eye test is to look at brain stem function. In John's case, the doll's eye test was negative, and the EEG showed very minimal brain activity, indicating that he is brain dead. I'm very sorry.”_

_Sherlock stared at his shoes. What was this man trying to tell him? His words weren't making sense. Sherlock understood them all, but once they were strung into sentences, they lost all meaning, becoming loud nonsense._

“ _He can't be kept alive indefinitely. The brain stem controls many processes that we won't be able to regulate, like heart rate and temperature. Eventually his organs will fail and he will die. I'm very sorry,” he said kindly, “but has he ever mentioned organ donation?”_

_Sherlock's head snapped up at that._

“ _No,” he said slowly._

“ _John never mentioned being an organ donor?”_

“ _No. No. No...”_

_The man looked confused. “Sorry?”_

“ _No, no, no,” Sherlock repeated._

_Because organ donation meant dead, and dead meant not coming back, and that meant John was dead dead dead, and that wasn't alright, because he was just talking to him yesterday, and he told Sherlock, exactly those words, “I'll be fine.” And if John was dead that meant he lied and John didn't lie, and nothing about this was alright, and..._

“ _Sherlock?” The doctor's voice was soft, and his hand was resting on Sherlock's shoulder._

“ _Don't touch me,” he bellowed, throwing the chair backwards in an effort to get away. “Get out,” he ordered, his voice wavering, but staying relatively calm._

“ _Sherlock-”_

“ _Get. Out.”_

_The doctor hesitated, but heard the rage in Sherlock's voice, and must have taken to heart what Sherlock had said earlier about keeping his job._

“ _I'll be back later this evening,” he said, bowing out and scurrying off._

_Sherlock pulled the tipped chair back to John's bedside and sank into it._

 

“ _John,” he whispered, trailing the length of his arm. It was warm. Dead people weren't warm. John was warm. Therefore he wasn't dead. Somehow, that logic statement wasn't making sense to him, but he didn't care. Because everything hurt and nothing was alright._

“ _John,” he whispered again, his hand resting in his friend's and his gaze stopping on John's face._

_He looked like he was sleeping, just like he had since coming from surgery, just like he had before, any time Sherlock had seen him drugged, or even just sleeping._

_But he wasn't._

“ _I'll be back,” he told John, and left to wander the halls._

 

And that was how Sherlock found himself on the floor in one of the waiting rooms, not really sure how he ended up there, but there nonetheless.

 

Still curled up in a ball, Sherlock realized he was alone in the room, and that the weeping noise was coming from him.

Well.


	6. Chapter 6

“Sherlock?”

It was a soft voice. A kind one. Sherlock didn't like it.

He didn't move.

“Sherlock...”

The voice was nearer this time, and Sherlock could feel hands on him, unwrapping his safe cocoon and letting him out before his wings were ready.

He couldn't be bothered to struggle.

Lestrade bent down into his field of vision after he'd straightened Sherlock out.

“Sherlock,” he murmured. “I'm so sorry.”

Sherlock blinked at him. Sorry was such a tiny word. Sorry could not begin to capture all these feelings. Sorry was small and meaningless and it was almost the same as not saying anything at all.

Lestrade wasn't sorry for anything; what could he possibly have to be sorry about?

“You should get off the ground,” Lestrade said quietly.

Yes, perhaps he should, but he wasn't feeling at all inclined to. Besides, where was he to go but the ground? If he sat in the chair, he would only slip onto the floor again. Best not to waste any effort or energy.

 

Sherlock slowly became aware that his fingers were moving, playing a violin melody.

He watched them, trying to figure out what it was. When he did, it made him want to cut his fingers off so they could never do it again. He settled for sitting on them, conscious of each movement they made and willed them to stop.

_Danse Macabre._


	7. Chapter 7

Time trickled. Or maybe it crawled. Or perhaps it was even sprinting, fast as light.

He couldn't tell anymore.

Lestrade was still around, and he was the one to greet Mrs Hudson, then sit her down and tell her. She cried.

Sherlock supposed she didn't need to be told. Seeing him like that should have been enough for her to know that something was horribly, horribly, wrong.

Lestrade whispered to her, took her to see John. She shouldn't have had to see him like that, all missing and broken.

He didn't want her to.

They came back with cups of tea, and left one on the floor for Sherlock.

It grew cold.

 

Mrs Hudson. The poor woman.

She sat above Sherlock in the chair he'd slipped out of, crying quietly and rubbing his back. It was odd for her to do that, but Sherlock didn't overly mind. It was comforting in a way.

Shouldn't he be the one comforting her?

 

Dammit, why were they all crying? John is still alive, still warm and breathing and _alive._ Sherlock could go in that room and hold his hand and feel the warmth, could catalogue the enzymes, the cell replication, could catalogue the cellular respiration, smell that quintessential John smell because _John was not dead._

 

With a sudden burst of energy Sherlock threw himself to his feet, wavering for a second as his vision blacked out from the sudden change in position. He pushed through it, making his way out of the room blind, following John's call.


	8. Chapter 8

The doctor was in the room when Sherlock returned, like he knew he'd come calling.

“How is he?” he asked quietly, sitting down across the room from John and not making eye contact.

“His condition hasn't changed Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock exhaled loudly.

“And what was it... the organ donation. What would that be like?”

The man carefully sat down next to Sherlock in a chair.

“He had a liver laceration, that's what the surgery was for, so that wouldn't be useable, but everything else would be. His heart, his lungs, kidneys, corneas, even some of his skin could be used for burn victims. Afterwards, he wouldn't look any different, so if the funeral was to be open casket...” he trailed off. “And if there is anything you don't want us to take, that's also fine. I would just like you to seriously consider it, and also his wishes.”

Sherlock was listening, but the whole time his brain was screaming at him that it was all wrong, that they weren't going to be allowed to cut John up and take out all his bits that made him who he was, then stitch him back up, empty inside, and return him. No, no, _no._

But that's not what John would have wanted. John was a selfless person, always helping, even getting himself shot for his troubles.

But now John was dead, and he left Sherlock behind all alone, so how did he have the right to make decisions anymore when he told Sherlock, to his face, fucking told him _“I'll be fine.”_

No, with that, Sherlock lost all thoughts of selflessness.

So what if he wanted to be selfish? There was no one around to tell him that it was a bit not good, no one to make him wear the hat, to tell him it was sarcasm, no one left.

And that made him furious.

 

Sherlock got up calmly, ignoring the doctor who trailed off when he did, confused by Sherlock's actions. It really made no difference to him, since he stopped listening moments ago.

Sherlock looked mournfully at John lying in the bed, still motionless except for the rise and fall of his chest.

And ever so carefully, he draped his upper body across the bed, wanting to hold as much of John as he could, to feel his warmth, to reassure himself that John Watson was still in existence.

But he wasn't, not really.

 

And that was the horrible truth Sherlock kept trying to delete, every single time it popped into his head. The recycling bin must have been full of them, piled high with the truth that Sherlock didn't want to face, didn't want to admit, because to do so would admitting to himself and everyone else that the John Watson that Sherlock knew, the John Watson that Sherlock was friends with, the one who lived with him, put up with him when no one else would, who cared enough to feed him, to run around London with him, to shoot a man for him, that John Watson was gone. And this John Watson that Sherlock was currently clinging to was nothing but an empty shell that held a once great man. And not only that, but a good man.

 

Sherlock sobbed into the sheets.


	9. Chapter 9

He was considerably calmer when the man returned later that evening.

“Why didn't anyone notice the bleed in his brain?” Sherlock asked calmly, not looking away from John, clutching his hand.

The doctor seemed startled.

“Sorry?”

“Why did no one notice the bleed in his brain before it was too late?” Sherlock repeated.

The doctor froze, and Sherlock could practically hear him choosing the right words.

“When John came in, there was no indication of a serious head injury. He was lucid and remembered most of what had happened. Besides a short loss of consciousness, he had no neurological symptoms. You yourself spoke to him before the surgery. Did he seem like he had any neurological deficits?”

When Sherlock didn't reply, he went on.

“The main focus was to stop the internal hemorrhaging in his abdomen, as that was what would have cause him the most harm.”

“But it didn't,” Sherlock noted bitterly. “You fixed that, but let him break in other places. No matter how perfect that surgery was, no matter how minimal the blood loss, none of it matters because he is _brain dead._ And there is nothing that can fix that.”

“No. There's not. Nothing can fix what happened to John, but something can come of this horrible tragedy.”

They were both silent for a minute.

“Are you his medical proxy?”

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed.

“And he has no living family?”

“No. His sister died about a year back, and his parents have been dead for decades.”

The man nodded, and Sherlock kept staring blankly at John. He wasn't an optimist, but he had to believe that there was always a chance.

Sentiment. How ridiculous.

Sherlock could feel the stinging behind his eyes.

“Get out,” he ordered.

This time, the man obeyed.


	10. Chapter 10

He slept there that night, and in the morning signed the consent papers for the organ harvesting. The surgery wouldn't be until the next morning, when all the recipients had been alerted and were in hospital.

Mycroft showed up shortly after that.

He sat in John's room without saying a word to Sherlock for nearly an hour.

He finally got up to leave, and that was when he spoke.

“He would be proud of you,” he whispered.

Sherlock shook his head. That didn't matter.

Mycroft left.

 

There was a steady stream of others coming in that afternoon. Apparently word had gotten out.

Everyone came to see him. Mike, Sally, Anderson, Angelo, Henry, Louise, Sarah, and of course, Molly.

Of all of them, she was the only one Sherlock didn't mind seeing. Molly was awkward and never knew what to say, but at least Sherlock didn't have to pretend in front of her, didn't have to be anything he wasn't. Not when she'd already seen him at his worst.

Sherlock ignored all the people for the most part, leaving Lestrade to talk with most of them, occasionally Mrs Hudson, who was often overcome by tears.

There were far too many flowers and hugs that afternoon for Sherlock's liking.

John would have elbowed him and told him to be nice.

Sherlock kept waiting for it, but it never came.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock stayed in the waiting room while John was emptied. He didn't know why, because he wasn't quite sure what he was waiting for. No one would be coming back from the surgery, not alive.

He supposed it was because he didn't know what else to do.

 

He couldn't go back to Baker Street, not right now. Not when he remembered the experiment he did while John lay on that same operating table bleeding into his brain. And however irrational it may be, Sherlock can't help but think if he was at the hospital for the last surgery, that maybe John would have been fine.

The smallest things could often have the biggest effect.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He got to see John after. Mrs Hudson declined, sobbing into Lestrade's shirt, while he only shook his head slightly.

Sherlock was thankful. He wasn't sure if he could see John while other people were watching.

 

He looked peaceful, if that meant anything. He looked dead. Was death even peaceful?

The breathing tube was gone, as were all the various wires and tubes he'd had before the surgery. He was still dotted with bruises and lacerations from the explosion.

The explosion. Was it really only a few days ago? It seemed like years now.


	12. Chapter 12

“The cause of the explosion?” Sherlock asked Lestrade later, still sitting in the waiting room. He couldn't go home, not yet. “Was it a bombing? Targeted? _Chance?_ ” he spat the last once out like it was toxic.

Lestrade winced. “It was a meth lab that exploded. The two guys who were in the building were dead when the fire crew found them.”

Chance.

John was only dead because he happened to be in Hoxton at that time, happened to be passing by that building at that time, happened to injured in such a way that it started a bleed in his brain, but also caused internal bleeding, happened to show no symptoms of the brain bleed, happened to be fine when he went into surgery, and brain dead when he came out.

All those tiny things, and without one of them, none of this train of dominoes would have come tumbling down.

 

But wasn't it like that for everything?

Because he'd only met John because he happened to see Mike that day, happened to tell him he was looking for a flatmate, because Mike happened to be sitting there when John walked by, and John happened to be walking by, because John happened to agree to coffee and mention that he couldn't afford London and Mike happened to remember what Sherlock had told him, because he happened to be at the hospital when Mike brought John by to introduce him, that John happened to be mad enough to come, and even madder to stay. All those things were chance too.

And Sherlock supposed, if one of those tiny things had been changed, John wouldn't be dead now.

 

Of course, he could have been dead a long time ago. Perhaps John was walking home that day to get his gun and shoot himself.

Sherlock shuddered to think about it.

But still, he wanted to be able to trace all of those threads back to the beginning, untangle them, and see when they could have gone instead.


	13. Chapter 13

Mycroft showed up.

Sherlock supposed it was about time. He had been sitting in the waiting room for nearly six hours, and some of the medical staff had begun to get concerned.

"Come along Sherlock," he sighed.

Sherlock got to his feet and followed his big brother down the hall, into the elevator, and leaned against the shiny surface, watching his distorted reflection. Mycroft didn't say anything, just waited until they reached the ground floor and led Sherlock to the waiting car.

He slid in and stared out the window as Mycroft had the driver take him home.

"I will handle all the funeral arrangements," he said softly.

Sherlock nodded slightly.

"You're not the only one grieving Sherlock," he reminded him. "He was loved and cared for by many. John was a wonderful person, and an even better friend."

_But no one knew him like me. No one can feel like I do. No one. So don't try to tell me otherwise._

Sherlock's thoughts must have been so loud that Mycroft could hear them, or perhaps so acidic that they burned through his skull and were etched on his face, because he was silent for the rest of the ride.

 

The flat felt wrong. All of John's things remained where they were, Sherlock not having the heart to change them or do anything that would shatter the illusion that John had just gone to Sarah's for the night, or some other girlfriend, or maybe even a medical conference.

Because as long as Sherlock could lie to himself, he could get up in the morning. If he managed to make it to sleep, which was elusive and unattainable.

Sherlock grew mould on the bread, and there was no one around to yell at him that it wasn't acceptable. Somehow, the experiment wasn't as rewarding.

Likewise with the burning candies and mini explosions.

It was all rather dull.

There wasn't any milk in the fridge.


	14. Chapter 14

The funeral was a few days later, and like Mycroft had said, he'd arranged everything.

He had a military funeral. It was packed. Sherlock wasn't surprised, John had a lot of friends. He knew a lot of people, had saved a lot of people.

 

He didn't really like it. There was far too much procedure that he didn't understand or know about.

He mostly just sat there looking at the hole John would be put it.

It was next to Sherlock's grave.

 

He remembered the day that he stood behind a tree and watched John speak to his grave, beg him to not be dead, and walk away.

Somehow, he didn't think John would be doing the same to him.

Although, there was the tiniest bit of Sherlock that hoped John was only doing this for payback, because of what Sherlock had put him through with his suicide.

But Sherlock had felt John's cold skin for himself, had seen the incisions where they had opened him up to take his organs to place into others, pat them down nicely, and sew them up, much like putting new batteries into a toy. That couldn't be faked.

The grieving mind had hope for impossible things.

Sherlock looked away from the grave as they lowered the coffin into it.

 

He accepted the flag they gave him. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do with it, but he took it anyway.

 

Mrs Hudson played the role of the grieving mother, Lestrade of the grieving father, and Sherlock supposed, he was the grieving widow.

Not entirely inaccurate.


	15. Chapter 15

The flag took John's place in his chair.

 

* * *

 

 

Days passed and Sherlock had no idea what filled them. There must have been something, because surely he would have shot the wall clear through, or burned the flat down if he hadn't done anything, boring himself to tears.

He just couldn't recall what it was he did.

 

Mrs Hudson made him eat.

Mycroft watched him to ensure he did not take up drugs again, a habit he did not intend to.

Lestrade came by to check on him, offer him cases, none of which Sherlock accepted.

Molly came to see him, made herself a cup of tea, and sat down on the couch next to Sherlock, and cried for near an hour. Sherlock had no clue what to do, and just let her lean into his shoulder, and tentatively placed an arm around her that had completely fallen asleep by the time she left, still sniffling and apologizing.

Sherlock shook his head and bid her good bye.


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock found himself on the roof of St Bart's again. So much was different from before, and yet, so many of the feelings were overlapping. He'd managed to bury them that day, he had to, but this time, there was no hole he could put them in that was deep enough.

He stood at the edge and watched the city pass by, John's words echoing through his head, just as they had ever single day, mocking him.

 

_You behave, alright?_

_You behave, alright?_

_You behave, alright?_

 

“I DID!” he screeched to the world, the words scratching at his throat and still not loud enough. “What about you?!”

He collapsed to his knees, precariously close to the edge of the building, and not caring. He wasn't sure if he had it in him to care any more.

He curled up into a ball. If he cried this time, it was silent.

 

_I'll be fine._

_I'll be fine._

_I'll be fine._

 

Lies, all of it.


	17. Chapter 17

He had the option to meet the people, people who wanted to thank him for what he'd done, for giving them parts of John.

Sherlock hated them for that, for them to be breathing and living, _warm,_ with parts of John inside him. A woman even had his eyes. She was seeing the whole world through John, and there was no way Sherlock could reconcile those images.

 

Besides, he wasn't sure if he could stand being near them and not wanting to rip open their bodies to see John inside of them, to reassure himself that he wasn't entirely gone.

And that wouldn't be good for anyone.

 

* * *

 

 

Speed dial number two. He couldn't bear to change it.

It rang, and he pushed down on his side, hissing in pain. It was going to stain his scarf.

“What is it Sherlock?” Lestrade asked. He didn't sound amused.

“I got shot again,” he breathed, laughing shakily. He didn't know why. It wasn't funny. Or was it?

He could hear a steady stream of curse words, and Lestrade bellowing at him to tell him where he was, but by then Sherlock's phone had slipping from his fingertips and was lying on the pavement.

And Sherlock grinned.


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock woke up in hospital, a dull ache in his side when the bullet had been. _Made it then._

He sighed, instantly regretting that decision, as it hurt like hell.

Mycroft was there. Sherlock could tell without even opening his eyes.

But the sighing and wincing had done it, and Mycroft knew he was awake and listening.

Sherlock opened his eyes to stare at him.

He looked tired.

“Next time, they may not find you in time,” he said seriously.

_And what makes you think I want to be found?_

That thought startled Sherlock a bit. He wasn't suicidal, and he wasn't looking to actively end his life, but he did keep putting himself in increasingly dangerous situations, not caring what happened. What did that mean?

Mycroft seemed to notice some of this internal struggle on Sherlock's face, because he pulled a chair closer with his umbrella and sat in it.

“I can have you committed, if it must come to that,” he said quietly.

Sherlock only nodded. “It won't,” he whispered, and sank back into the pillows, signalling this conversation was well and truly over.

Mycroft stood up and went to the doorway, hovering for a minute, and Sherlock could tell he wanted to say something else.

“All hearts are broken. Good day Mycroft,” he finished, looking away.

And with that, the man left.

Sherlock slept.

 

He behaved as a patient. Didn't return home until they were satisfied he was healed up enough.

Mrs Hudson fretted over him, fed him soup, which he actually ate, sitting at her kitchen table as she bustled around, giving him chunks of warm bread and butter, baking biscuits. She kept up a steady stream of nothing important, lighthearted things about Mrs Turner's married ones next door, and how they were having some domestic troubles.


	19. Chapter 19

He was mostly numb now. Not angry anymore, but completely numb.

Stages of grief, wasn't it? Denial, anger, sadness, acceptance, something like that?

Sherlock was in the numb stage. And if there wasn't a numb stage, they were wrong, because there was nothing else this could be.

 

Because his healing bullet wound didn't hurt anymore, even though he stopped taking the painkillers they gave him (non-narcotic of course, Mycroft wasn't stupid), and when he examined it in the mirror, the skin was still pink and new, not done meshing the wound closed.

And when he cut himself on the glass slide he broke, his hands shaking too much to put it on the microscope, that didn't hurt either, even as he watched the blood drip from his hand.

He put a plaster on it and cleaned up the glass, tucking the largest piece away, just in case he needed it.

 

* * *

 

 

He had awful dreams, nightmares really, in which John came to him and asked him why he let them take parts of him. In his dream, John was ripped open and bloody, his eyes gone, and looking so, so sad. He begged John to forgive him, that he was sorry, and John just kept repeating, over and over, _“I told you I would be fine.”_ But he couldn't be fine now, not without his heart and his eyes and his lungs breathing air and life into him, and behind those words was an accusation that Sherlock was to blame, because he was the one who let them do it to him.

Sherlock woke up from those dreams with a wet pillow.

 

Some nights he would lay awake, plotting the quiet murders of the doctors who missed the bleed in John's brain, the ones who allowed him to die, quietly and alone on the operating table while they fixed something that would never matter.

He could have done it. No one would ever know. It could look like an accident.

Sherlock would have been an excellent serial killer if he wasn't a detective.

But Sherlock studied them further, and found that although they were flawed, the doctors who'd treated John were actually good, and actually did care about what had happened. They'd attended his funeral, given their condolences to Sherlock. He supposed it wasn't their fault, but didn't know if he could ever find it in himself to forgive them. He wondered how they slept at night as he lay awake staring at the ceiling and tracing the thousand threads of what might have been.

 

He slept better when it was John's bed he slept in, the faint quintessential John smell still there, and in that moment between sleep and awakeness, Sherlock could still believe that John was alive, that he was standing over him, waiting for him to wake up.

If only he could live there.


	20. Chapter 20

He still took cases, but it wasn't the same. He got shot at more, and even got shot. Broke his hand and no one made him go to the hospital.

So he didn't.

It wasn't until a week or so later that Lestrade noticed him wincing at a crime scene and drove him straight to A&E and waited with him to make sure he got it taken care of.

 

Sherlock didn't even bother sawing off the cast early. What was the point? This cast had no creative drawings on it, no signatures in a doctor's messy scrawl, no notes to remind him to eat that he couldn't get away from for weeks on end.

 

* * *

 

 

Some days Sherlock took the piece of his glass slide out and examined it. He didn't do anything with it.

Mostly. There was just the one time when he pressed it into his leg, just to see what it would do. It welled up red and trickled down the side of his thigh, surprisingly warm for someone who couldn't seem to feel anything, who some days wondered if he was more dead than alive.

He didn't like that he did that, so hid it away in John's room.


	21. Chapter 21

Sherlock spent a year in the fog. On the anniversary of John ceasing to exist, if you could call it that, seeing as it was hardly cause for celebration, Sherlock finally looked at the list Mycroft had given him months ago. The list of people who had received parts of John to hold inside them forever, to carry where ever they went. Sherlock hated them for that, for taking that away from him. He wanted John all to himself, or at least part of him to have near. But nothing was fair anymore.

He looked at the list of people John had saved, and made a note to add it to the other list of people John had saved before. There were so many of them.

But for now, he crumpled it up and threw it across the room.

 

A package arrived that day. Sherlock eyed it suspiciously, wary of its contents, but finally took it up to the flat to open.

He was glad he did, because inside was the best thing anyone could have given him. _John._

Not all of him, because he was scattered through people all over the country, but the part that mattered the most. The skull.

Sherlock collapsed into John's chair and blinked back his blurry vision.

“ _That’s a skull.” “Friend of mine.”_

Indeed it was.

 

 

Sherlock picked up the phone and dialled one of the numbers on the list.

 

They met in a cafe. He was young and healthy looking. They both knew who he had to thank for that.

Conversation was light, and Sherlock was civil.

It was nearing the end of the meal (Sherlock had forced himself to eat) when Sherlock asked him.

“I was wondering if you could do something for me. It's not a lot, but it is a bit... personal,” Sherlock explained, pleading with his eyes for him to agree.

“Anything,” the young man breathed.

And so Sherlock pulled out his stethoscope, _John's stethoscope,_ and placed it to the man's chest over John's heart.

Sherlock closed his eyes, and for a minute, he could pretend it was John.

And when he opened them, the world didn't seem as bad.

 

Because even though John had been wrong, that he had not been fine despite his claims, Sherlock still might be able to make it.

 _I'll be fine_ , he told himself.

And he could almost believe it.


End file.
